


sweet dreams are made of this

by postcardmystery



Category: True Blood
Genre: Blood, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His accent never quite evens out and hers never quite lessens, but they can fake whatever they need well enough, if they must, and every time he kisses her, platonic and searing and sweet as hellfire, she doesn’t care what his tongue says, as long as it keeps talking.</p><p>Conmen AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet dreams are made of this

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for blood, violence, and murder.

“What’s a lady like you doin’ in an alleyway like this?” he says, the light low on blond hair so pale it’s almost white, and she cocks her head, spreads her arms, replies, “You see a lady here?”

“Am I supposed to?” he says, and she steps forward, opens her purse to let him see the pearl-handled gun inside.

“Want to steal some money from some extremely odious pieces of shit?” he says, and she gives him a long, considering look, says, “My name’s Pam.”

“Eric,” he says, offering her arm, “and you must tell me, wherever did you get those shoes—”

 

 

They fuck exactly once. It’s a transaction and they both know it. He presses his promise into her skin and she pushes his head between her legs and holds on for dear life.

“That was quite something,” says Eric, when they’re done, and she takes the lit cigarette she’s offered, says, “Let’s not do it again.”

“Of course not,” says Eric, “but  _do_  tell how you did that thing with your tongue.”

 

 

She picks the men, and he picks the women. Her eyes slide down their bodies until she finds shoes shined nice, and he looks them straight in the eye, does not pursue them if they don’t smile back.

“Like a big game hunter,” she says, and he matches her smirk, says, “Like a predator.”

“So that makes them the prey,” she says, and he spreads his leg, takes a long drag on his cigarette, says, simply, “Exactly.”

 

 

“Very mature,” says Eric, his arms crossed in front of the mirror where Pam’s written FUCK OFF in her blood-red lipstick.

“He grabbed my ass before he even told me his name,” says Pam, “he’s lucky we’re just connin’ him for his money. What an asshole.”

“I can beat the shit out of him later,” says Eric, sliding a thin leather glove back on, “if you like.”

Pam snorts and says, “Of course I like. Got the diamonds?”

Eric pulls his fedora down low and returns, “Got the gun?”

 

 

Her stockings are always black and sheer and his shirts are always pressed. She piles her hair up high and cuts his herself, in motel sinks and five star hotel rooms and with him sitting on the bonnet of a stolen car, the sun in her eyes and his smirk on her skin. His accent never quite evens out and hers never quite lessens, but they can fake whatever they need well enough, if they must, and every time he kisses her, platonic and searing and sweet as hellfire, she doesn’t care what his tongue says, as long as it keeps talking.

“Do you miss it?” says Eric, on a cold night in a town they’re just blowing through, and Pam flicks cigarette ash at his shoes just because she can, says, “Miss  _what_?”

 

 

“Who are we lookin’ for?” asks Pam, four years in, her legs crossed on a dive bar stool and every man in the joint hypnotised by the seam in her stockings.

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Eric, winking at the girl behind the bar and smoothing back his hair.

“I ain’t stupid,” says Pam, “tell me the son of a bitch’s name so I can help you kill him myself.”

“His name,” says Eric, and then takes a deep, deep breath, “his name is Russell Edgington.”

“See, now that weren’t so hard, was it?” says Pam, and throws back her drink, uncrosses her legs, says, “Now, be a big boy and tell me who the fuck has to  _die_.”

 

 

They burn through towns like matches, leaving chaos in their wake that they’re never going to have to clean up, every con bearing their fingerprints but never bearing their name. They burn through towns like matches, until Eric holds out his hand for her to step down from the train, onto the platform in Jackson, Mississippi, and says, his eyes almost sickening in their intensity, “He killed my father.”

“Everyone he’s ever loved,” says Pam, and it’s a promise, a benediction, a prayer, and she slips her hand into the crook of his arm and leads him into the hot city street, does not look back.

 

 

“The maid was easy,” says Pam, leaning forward on the bed to permit Eric to light her cigarette, “and a good fuck, thank God. You were right, they’ll share you in a second. Split you like a goddamn hotdog.”

“I’m going to paint the walls in their fuckin’ blood,” says Eric, and Pam curls around him as he shakes, says, “I know, baby. They got it comin’.”

“I love you best when you help me plan murders,” says Eric, a sharp note of humour in his voice, and Pam smiles against his hair, replies, “Good, ‘cause we’re gonna have to kill a helluva lot of people before the week’s out.”

 

 

“Water, ice, nothing else,” says Eric, to the blonde waitress with the knockout smile, and leans over, presses into his mouth gently into Pam’s, says, “See you when I’m the worst man you’ve ever known.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” says Pam, against his open lips, and when he walks away he throws her a kiss just to watch her catch it.

 

 

He comes back with blood from head to toe and when he kisses her he’s hot and stinking.

“You taste like sunshine,” he says, drunk on it, and she chuckles, says, “Got somethin’ for you, too, darlin’. Old friend of yours came by. Name of Godric.”

“I thought he was dead,” says Eric, distantly, and Pam smiles as her mouth starts to change, says, “Baby, I’m gonna need you to hold on and ride it out, ‘cause this, it only hurts for a second.”


End file.
